Reflection
by Sparrowfall
Summary: Alistair/Maric *Spoilers for Stolen Throne and Calling Novels* In the Temple of Andraste, Alistair goes through the gauntlet and meets a figure from his past.


Everyone else had been down the corridor, vanishing one by one to confront whatever creature awaited them. Alistair had heard their noises but could never make out the words. Sten had rumbled something in that clipped stoic way of his. Morrigan sounded like she had been arguing with someone. Zevran's voice was soft and almost pained. Leliana sounded terrified.

And now it was his turn. He knew someone familiar was waiting for him, it was just a feeling that the temple gave him. A pressing expectant feeling that one experiences when they suddenly realize they've been holding their breath. Alistair realized he _was_ holding his breath and let it out explosively.

He swallowed and pushed the doors open. They were lighter than he thought they would be. Weren't the doors in ancient holy temples supposed to be big and heavy and impossible to nudge around? As he slipped through they slammed closed behind him, a noise of finality that made the growing weight in Alistair's stomach suddenly triple.

For some reason he was expecting to see Duncan. He was _hoping_ to see Duncan. A last chance to ask all the questions he desperately wanted answers to, say all the things he wish he had said. But instead it was Cailan, his half brother. His half brother that barely acknowledged him. His half brother that... no... wait... something was off.

The man turned to look at him, his gaze calm and appraising. "I know I'm supposed to say something profound here. But maker knows I can't think of a damn thing. I was usually really good at speeches when the time came, too."

It was Maric. Maric the great. Maric the brave. Maric the liberator. Maric the son of the Rebel Queen and former King of Ferelden.

Maric, his father.

Alistair's fists clenched. "I'm not really in the mood for speeches," he gritted out. He was torn to bits inside. He wanted to scream his suffering at the man. He wanted to plead and beg and demand to know if he ever even cared about his little bastard son. He wanted to fall on his knees and ask if Maric was proud that he had become a warden.

"I never cared for them much myself, really. Rendon used to spin speeches at Rowan and I constantly. I'd do impressions of him sometimes when he wasn't around. Rowan would either laugh herself silly from it or thrash me for mocking her father." Maric approached the younger man, his eyes twinkling with mirth and yet slightly sad. "But I'm rambling. And you aren't here to listen to me ramble."

Alistair wanted to shrink back, but he was fascinated by Maric's face. He'd only met the king when he was young and the memories of a child are a bit more elastic and affected by imagination than the memories of an adult. They were roughly the same height, he noted. And Alistair was certain that he was probably stronger. Maric the great seemed more human and less larger than life. The fact that he was dressed simply in a loose shirt and pants, however fancy the embroidery was, made it even moreso.

Maric's gaze dropped to his hands. "Duncan and I were friends, you know." He studied his fingers, flexing them lazily. "We had to sneak a little to meet up and reminisce. Loghain was positive that every Grey Warden was an Orlesian spy or an invader, even back then. When I could trust Cailan to keep a secret I'd bring him along." He grimaced. "That's probably why he ended up with such an admiration of the wardens."

Hearing that name from those lips made the rage boil a few degrees hotter. As if Duncan's name were a holy name. As holy as Andraste herself and one that this man had no right to utter. "Duncan never mentioned that," Alistair said flatly, fighting to keep the growl out of his voice.

"Yes." The former king coughed into his fist. "That was at my request."

He finally could hold it in no longer. "So... conscripting me from the templars. That was just a favor for his old departed friend? Doing you one last good turn?" The spite dripped from his words. Was the point of this trial to taint his memory of the one man who seemed to actually care about what he wanted in life?

Maric looked up. He was now standing just a few feet from Alistair. Close enough that he could reach out and touch him if he felt like it. "That wasn't Duncan's way, and you know that," he sounded for all the world like the gently chiding father now, and that made the words sting all the more. "Besides the fact that he knew the joining could very well kill you, Duncan had been a warden and a commander long enough to see potential, wherever it may lie. And he saw yours. It just so happened that you were my son as well."

Alistair snorted. "Your bastard, you mean."

"That didn't make you any less my son," Maric replied. He slid his thumbs into his belt. "But that's the hitch of it, isn't it? Nobody's ever made you feel like their son until Duncan came along. And then fate came and ripped him from you." He shook his head and murmured to himself, "Loghain, you fool. You poor sad fool."

Alistair shrugged, staring intently at a spot of wall just behind the apparition's shoulder. "You get used to it after a couple of decades. For awhile I thought 'bastard' was just part of my name."

Both men were quiet for a time after that, letting the sounds of the ancient building fill the gap between them. The trembling from the winds, the settling of stone, the tiny noises of the small creatures that inhabited the building, the muffled voices of his companions waiting for him beyond the corridor.

"I could spin justifications at you. I could explain the politics of it and tell you about my image and how my advisers reacted to the news and all of that, but really... that isn't why I kept you a secret." Maric stepped forward a fraction. "I wanted you to have the life I could not. A life where you could choose your own path."

Alistair locked eyes with the former king. "Right. So the whole chantry thing was an accident."

Maric flinched. "I never expected Eamon to marry that pious Orlesian. She demanded to know who your father was, and Eamon loved her too much to lie. And then the secret was out and nothing I could do would tuck it back away again." He looked as though he wanted to say more, desperately needed to say more, but whatever force the temple had that brought him here, it was also keeping some secrets as secrets. "After that, Eamon's wife didn't want the king's bastard to be raised alongside her own son so they sent you away. And like a fool I did nothing to stop it."

"I suppose that the point of this whole thing is for me to forgive you. But I can't. Not yet," Alistair managed to keep his voice level despite all his anger and agony fighting to break through.

The king nodded sadly. "I don't know what the point of this is. Maybe it's _my_ last chance instead of yours." He lifted his hand and slowly curled his fingers open. Resting in his palm was a signet ring, displaying the family crest. "I should have told Loghain and Eamon and the rest to go to hell. They were worried that acknowledging that I had another son after Rowan died would make it sound as if I flung myself into the arms of any willing woman, and that Rowan was just the one I happened to be married to. Loghain would have sooner killed you outright than have anything taint Rowan's memory." He bit his lip but offered no further explanation. "You don't have to forgive me, but I still have to apologize. Alistair, I'm sorry."

Alistair stared dumbly at the ring as though he had never seen one before in his life. Maric finally grasped his arm, pressed the ring into his hand, and folded his fingers over it. His touch lingered on Alistair's closed fist for a moment, and then gave it a gentle pat before stepping away and giving the man his space once more.

Maric bowed, his loose blond hair spilled forward and hid his tired face. "If I could do it all again, I never would have let you out of my arms, everyone else be damned. I would have brought you into the palace the moment the truth was out. But we all only have one life to our names, and we all have to die with the regrets of the choices we make. Not being a proper father to you was one of my biggest ones."

"I... I thought you said you weren't going to give a speech," Alistair croaked. He couldn't take his eyes off his closed hand. He couldn't look Maric in the eye any longer. His arm felt numb where the former king had touched him.

A laugh that sounded so much like Alistair's own was the response. "I did, didn't I? Oh well, I guess being dead makes you forgetful." Maric sobered. "It's time for me to go. But know that I was never ashamed of you, and I am deeply proud."

Alistair nodded and glanced up. There was nothing there. Just the silence of the temple and the cold walls. The ring in his hand dug into his palm. He pocketed it without looking at it and hurried along to catch up with the others.


End file.
